Page 7 of Jillaroo from Jacaranda

He took three long strides and jammed the phone back where it was going to stay for the night, and possibly even tomorrow – he’d make an exception to contact his Mum in the UK, and hopefully hear from his sister in Bali at some point throughout the day, so he could wish them both a merry Christmas. That was that, though.

And now, it was time to battle it out for top-dog position and the twenty-thousand-dollar winnings.

In his late twenties, most would say he’d passed his prime as a bull rider – thirty was classed as granddad status. He didn’t care what anyone thought, though. As he did with most things in his life, he defied the stereotype. It was almost two years ago that his life had shattered into a million little pieces with the IED explosion but, piece by piece, he was slowly putting it back together. A cheating wife, a backstabbing cousin, financial troubles, his father’s death … the blows just kept coming. The higher you climb, the harder you fall. And he’d fallen hard, many times, literally, and fugitively. No matter whether it was a bruised ego, or broken bones, nothing and nobody would ever stop him getting back up. His PTSD wasn’t going to beat him either.

He wished all he had to worry about was drawing a tough bull or a bad ride or even a concussion, but he had much bigger fish to fry. Bull riding was his escape.

Ducking beneath a pass gate, he strode along the catwalk behind the chutes and joined his fellow riders up on the railings. Between the riders, helpers, stock contractors and the invited buckle bunnies, it was crowded, not that he minded one bit. With the bulls snorting and banging in the holding yard and the bull contractor yelling orders at his roustabouts, this was familiar territory. He felt at home. Safe.

Planting himself into the moment, he watched a couple of riders buck it out, some making the eight seconds while others were flung like ragdolls. Then, before he knew it, it was his turn to shine.

Ty slipped down into the small space of the chute, each denim-clad leg going astride Raising Hell. Holding a leather strap between his teeth, he lashed the free end around his wrist. Raising Hell tossed him a stuff-you look. Ty chuckled to himself as he strapped in tight for the next ride of his life. What came next was anyone’s guess and every single second counted.

Time slowed. Almost stopped. Tension coiled in the air. He nodded. The gate swung open. Raising Hell exploded into the arena, whiplashing Ty, as the one-tonne beast pirouetted in a way that a monster this size shouldn’t be physically able to. With Ty’s weight slipping slightly to one side, he narrowed his field of vision to a spot in between the bull’s muscular shoulderblades. That was his balance point. It would keep him grounded. Keeping his toes turned out and his spurs dug into the bull’s thick hide, Ty shut everything out – the roars of the crowd, the bright lights, the echoing music, the announcer’s booming voice, his troubled life … all he could hear was his heart beating like a drum.

Everything slowed, almost stopped, and then, in a heartbeat, sped up again. The bull snapped in the opposite direction and bucked harder, trying everything to get Ty the hell off its back. His gloved hand gripping the rope, the other in the air, Ty hung on tight as the adrenaline hummed through his veins. He knew that, one way or another, he would end up in the dirt, be it victoriously with boots to the ground or after being ungraciously thrown. He quickly realised this was one of the latter moments.

Landing on his shoulder, he heard hooves thunder the ground only inches from his face before he rolled away from imminent danger. The bullfighters moved in fast, distracting Raising Hell by laying their own lives on the line, the unsung heroes of this sport.

Scrambling on all fours, Ty made fast work of the distance between himself and the safety of the railings. Then, heart in his throat, he looked to the scoreboard, waiting with bated breath. At the very least, he’d made the buzzer just in the nick of time, or so he thought. He just hoped he’d scored enough points to blow this out of the water.

With Raising Hell determined to complete a victory lap of the arena, the skilled bullfighters eventually ushered him to the gate leading to the stock pens, and he disappeared with one last kick of his back legs.

Ty’s score appeared on the monitor.

‘Ninety-one points go to Ty Parker.’ The announcer’s voice reverberated through the arena. ‘That makes him our champion for the second year running.’

The crowd erupted. Ty punched the air victoriously and took the opportunity to saunter to the middle of the ring, remove his hat and bow. He owed so much to his adoring fans, and his fellow bull riders.

He’d done what he’d come all this way to do, and after drawing the fiercest bull in the competition too. With what he owed Kelly, the twenty grand was already spent, but at least he was now over halfway to getting her out of his life for good.

Half an hour later, he’d accepted his trophy and winnings, done a few television interviews, packed up and was headed for his LandCruiser. Weary from the jam-packed day, he was going to go down to the Bull Bar, have a couple of beers, then hit the hay in his swag. He’d head back to his station at dawn to spend Christmas Day with his motley crew of furry and feathered family – horses, cattle, chickens, and one wild rooster aptly named Colonel. Thank goodness he had Jasper’s grandfather, Don Roberts, to take care of things whenever he was away. The retired old stockman was a godsend.

The crowds were mostly gone by the time he hoisted his gear bag over his shoulder. He strode out from behind the bucking chutes, leaving behind the hullaballoo of the bucking bulls being loaded onto a stock truck. Strolling down the darkened food alley, he noted that the trailers that sold the Dagwood dogs, hot chips, smoked ribs and fairy floss were all locked up, as was the infamous QCWA hamburger stand he’d got his dinner from earlier. Talk about a burger to sink his teeth into – perfectly grilled onions, melted cheese, crispy bacon, oozy egg, homemade tomato relish and a fair old chunk of beetroot to top it off. The sweet ladies manning the grill and counter really knew the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.

He caught sight of the stunning woman he’d bumped into at the ag store and paused in the shadows, watching as she tried to coax her magnificent horse into an ancient-looking trailer. He’d been lucky enough to watch her race to the finishing line tonight, scoring herself first place, and was in awe of her amazing riding skills.

Her physique as petite as a ballerina, but her dynamism as determinedly fierce as a cornered micky bull, she stomped her booted foot. ‘Oh, come on, Buck,’ she growled. ‘What’s gotten into you tonight?’ Her hands went to her hips. ‘Anyone would think you’re a petulant child, the way you’re acting up.’

The horse whinnied and tossed its head.

‘Really?’ she stated in a stern, motherly tone. ‘Well, it’s just too bad it’s not your trailer, Buck. It’s not my fault mine got a flat tyre last-minute and I had to borrow GG’s old one.’ She tugged his lead rope. ‘Come on, mister. I really want to go home.’

The gelding just wasn’t buying into it. He whinnied again, then stomped his back foot, as if mimicking his owner.

Ty had to stifle a chuckle. He couldn’t just stand there and watch, so he stepped forward from the shadows. ‘Howdy there. Do you need a hand?’

Lead rope in hand, she shot him a look over her shoulder – if looks could kill, damn, he’d be taking his last breath. ‘No, I most certainly do not.’

‘Wow.’ He held his hands up. ‘Sorry, just trying to help.’ Her jet-black hair, tied up in a long ponytail, made him think of a horse’s tail swishing to and fro.

He waited a few seconds as she fruitlessly tugged and begged this horse called Buck to do as he was told. ‘Sorry to say, but it kind of looks like you could use a hand.’

She spun to face him, hands going to her jean-clad hips. Light bounced off the sparkles of her button-up Western top. ‘Why do you bull riders always think us women are all damsels in distress that need saving?’

Shock rendered him momentarily speechless then, again, he had to stifle a grin. She wouldn’t be pleased if he cracked up laughing right now.

She folded her arms and tapped her boot toe. ‘Well, come on then. I’m waiting for your answer.’